open up your heart (and let me pull you out)
by mcfuz
Summary: I love you, pounds the rhythm of Derek's heart, but the words don't need to be said aloud because Spencer knows them already. / Or, domestic Moreid.
1. this is non-stop baby

Reid's car won't start.

The one day he decides to drive to work instead of taking the Metro; the one day he thinks maybe he'll get to Quantico early and have time to revisit some old case files; the one day he knows he will get the fresh coffee and not the lukewarm crap which coalesces at the bottom of the machine; the one day he thinks will be better than the rest, his good-for-nothing Volvo Amazon won't start.

And, of course, by now he's missed his train, which means that he'll be even later than usual, and will most likely not receive any coffee at all.

"Fuck," Reid sums up, before fishing his phone from his messenger bag and dialing a familiar number. "Morgan? Hey, it's Reid. Look, I need a favour…"

* * *

><p>Morgan pulls up outside of Reid's apartment block a little under twenty minutes later. Reid jumps to his feet, trying not to look too eager, and slides into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief. "I owe you," he tells his coworker, clipping in his seatbelt and settling back against the leather of the seat.<p>

"We'll discuss the terms of our contract later," Morgan jokes, pulling away from the kerb and slipping into the slowly-moving traffic. "What happened, anyway? Slept in, missed the train?"

"I don't sleep in," Reid begins huffily, but pauses when he realises that Morgan's teasing him. "Very funny. I was going to drive myself, but the car's old and it wouldn't start, and by then the train had come and gone."

Morgan gives an understanding nod as he makes a right-hand turn onto the highway. "That's too bad. Do you know what's wrong with it?" Reid gives him a confused look. "The car," Morgan clarifies.

"Oh. No, no I don't. I'm afraid I don't know much about cars at all, actually."

"What?" Morgan feigns a shocked expression and clutches his left hand to his chest. "Dr. Spencer Reid, the man with three PhDs and two BAs—"

"Three BAs," Reid interrupts, and Morgan just gives him a look.

"—_three_ BAs, sorry…the certified genius of the FBI doesn't know much about cars? What's the world coming to, pretty boy?"

"Shut up," Reid says, clutching his bag close to his chest. "Not like I had the time for auto shop classes while I was studying at MIT." Derek just gives him an amused glance, before fixing his gaze back on the road. "Besides," Reid continues, "It's one thing to read about fixing cars, and it's another thing entirely to actually fix them. Even if, theoretically, I knew how to do it, I still doubt I'd be able to. My hand-eye coordination is, at best, passable, and the skill required to manually dismantle an engine is actually quite phenomenal. Did you know that the first car engine was invented by—"

"Okay, okay, TMI Reid, thanks." Morgan reaches out his left hand and gently presses it against Reid's thigh, halting his spiel. Though the hand is removed almost an instant later, returning to its place on the steering wheel, Reid feels as though he's been branded; the skin beneath his trousers throbs with heat, and it's not entirely unpleasant.

Of course, it's not entirely unfamiliar, either. He's been observing these reactions within himself for some time, now, and the conclusion he's reached, while not discomfiting, is very much wishful thinking on his behalf.

He thinks he's in love with Morgan.

No, he _knows_ he's in love with Morgan. Reid may not always be able to express how he's feeling—he knows that's the reason many people who meet him secretly think he's Asperger's—but he knows his own heart just as well as he knows Chaucer; that is, inside-out and backwards.

He just doesn't think Morgan feels the same way, and that knowledge makes his heart weigh heavily in his chest.

"Reid?" Morgan asks, cutting through his musings. "You okay?"

Reid comes back to the conversation with a jolt, and nods jerkily. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, I was—distracted."

"As long as you're okay," Morgan begins slowly, and looks as if he's about to say something else, but changes his mind at the last minute. "We're here." He pulls up in the parking lot beneath HQ and unclips his seatbelt. Reid does the same, and hopes Morgan doesn't notice how sweaty his palms are, or the way his hands are shaking.

"Thanks for the ride," Reid says, trying to distract himself from doing something really stupid—like attacking Morgan's mouth, for instance. It's looking very appealing at the moment, as the two of them sit inches apart in the dim light, alone except for each other. Reid's gaze flickers down from Morgan's eyes to his lips and back up again, feeling himself flush all the way from his forehead to his collarbone. "Derek," he says, almost involuntarily, his teeth and tongue and lips moving of their own accord. "Derek, I—"

Warmth. Breath. A soft pressure against his lips. Reid squeaks in surprise, but then lets his eyes flutter closed and leans into the kiss, bringing his clammy hands up to clutch at Derek's henley, Derek's shoulders, his waist and his neck and his _everywhere_. Reid feels frighteningly whole in this single moment, as if he's been missing a piece of himself that he didn't even realise was gone, but which has now slotted back into place and is making Reid's heart sing.

Morgan—_Derek_—pulls away with a soft sigh, resting his forehead against Reid's. They breathe the same air for a few long moments, Reid's hair swinging forward like a curtain hiding them from the rest of the world. Derek thumbs at Reid's eyelashes, then, and Reid slowly opens his eyes to meet Derek's warm, heady gaze.

"I've been wanting to do that for years," Derek whispers, and Reid's heart skips a beat. "I had no idea you felt the same."

Reid lets out a small, quiet laugh. "Some profiler you are," he says, with a smile that doesn't leave his face for the rest of the day.

* * *

><p>Reid misses out on getting his coffee that morning. He doesn't care in the slightest.<p> 


	2. you've got me going crazy

Fran calls her son every Sunday night like clockwork. It's become a ritual for them, one that's only interrupted when he's on an important case and texts her beforehand to let her know. But for years, ever since he moved to DC, it's been their thing.

So on this Sunday, a day like any other, Fran thinks nothing of ringing her son. She pours herself a glass of red wine, settles into her old leather armchair with _The Price is Right_ playing softly on the television in front of her, and dials the number she knows by heart.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

"_This is SSA Derek Morgan. I'm not here right now, but if you leave a message I'll get back to you as soon as I can._" The answering machine beeps, and Fran hangs up, staring down at the phone in shock. Her heart starts to pound in her chest. Derek never forgets about her, he knows that tonight is their night, so something has to be seriously wrong for him to—

Fran cuts off that train of thought. She won't let herself get hysterical. After taking a long, slow sip of her wine, she sets the glass down on the table and dials her son's number again.

It rings.

And rings.

And—

"_Derek's phone, this is Spencer speaking._" Fran blinks hurriedly for a few moments, trying to place the voice on the other end which is painfully familiar, but comes up empty. "_Hello?_"

"Oh, yes, ah, hello," she manages, clearing her throat noisily. "This is Fran, Derek's mom—is he there? Can I talk to him?"

From the receiver she can hear the sounds of cutlery and crockery clinking, and the soft murmur of conversation in the background. Its sounds like they're at a restaurant. "_Oh, hello Mrs Morgan_," Spencer is saying, and Fran tunes back in. "Derek's just ducked to the bathroom, he should be back in a moment—ah, was there something urgent you needed to talk about?"

Fran smooths out the folds in her skirt. "No, no, nothing urgent—I just call him every Sunday, is all. I can ring him back later, if that's more convenient for him."

"_Every—hang on, Mrs Morgan_," Spencer says quickly, and it sounds like he brings the phone up against his chest. Fran can hear faintly the sound of a conversation, and she strains her ears to hear it. "_—didn't you tell me she would call?_" Spencer is saying, voice muffled. "_…she know about us?_" Another voice, one that is definitely her son's, replies in the negative.

"_This is all kind of new…I haven't found the time…just give it here and I'll—_" The phone passes hands and the sound becomes clear again. "_Mom?_"

"Derek, honey," Fran says, eyeing off her wine and wondering if she could get away with another glass. "Is there something you wanted to tell me?"

There's a long pause at the other end. "_I was going to, Mom, I swear, it's just—this is really new, and I didn't want to jinx it, and—_"

"Say no more," Fran interrupts, her still-good memory finally placing Spencer's voice. "You have a wonderful time on your date with the good Doctor, and call me when you get home. I'll expect to hear all the details, Derek."

Something akin to a laugh comes out of her son's mouth, and Fran smiles. He sounds so happy—happy in a way he hasn't been in years. "_I will, Mom. Love you. And—thanks._" Fran hangs up for the second time that night, her heart still beating double-time, but this time it's not from worry, or stress, or pain—this time it's elation, pure and simple.

Maybe she will have that second glass of wine. They're celebrating tonight, after all.

* * *

><p>Diana opens the letter with her thumbnail, savouring the sight of her son's familiar, sloping handwriting on the folded sheet inside. He used to write to her everyday, but now that the letters arrive less regularly, she finds herself perking up whenever they do get delivered. She never tires of hearing how Spencer's doing; never tires of reading the stories he weaves for her with blue ink and parchment.<p>

Today, the letter is short, just a page long. Diana curls up on the window seat in her room and smooths out the creases in the paper as she begins to read.

_Mom,_

_Sorry I haven't written in a while. We've just finished up on an important case, and I'm writing this to you now before I fall asleep and forget all about it. I hope you're well, and that you got the book I sent you for your birthday. Remember when you used to read it to me? I can recall every word._

_There's something I want to tell you. I wanted to do it in person, but work has just been so busy lately, and if I wait any longer I'll feel like I'm lying to you._

_Mom, I have a boyfriend. His name is Derek Morgan. We work together. You met him, once, that time you flew to DC? It's okay if you don't remember. I just wanted you to know._

_I think I love him, Mom. I haven't told him that. This thing we have; it's still really new. I don't want to ruin it. But I think know that I love him. I just need to find the right time to say so._

_My eyes are falling closed as I'm writing this (the jet is very effective at sending me to sleep) so I'm going to cut this short. I miss you, and I love you. I'll try to visit soon, and maybe Derek will come along._

_— S_

Diana reads and rereads the letter, before carefully folding it up along its creases and sliding it inside its envelope. She holds the envelope to her chest. Spencer sounds so happy; she thinks it must be Derek making him feel that way, and for that, Diana is glad.

She opens her bedside drawer and places the letter beside all of Spencer's other correspondence; the envelopes inside are in various stages of yellowing and decay, but she loves them all equally. As she closes her desk drawer, she thinks back to her time at the BAU all those years ago, and even though the memories are fragmented, she can recall meeting a man named Derek—a man who, according to what she just read, is the reason her son keeps smiling, even after all the terrible things he's seen.

Diana smiles, and goes to curl up on the window seat once more. She hopes that, wherever he is, Spencer is curled up too—by a fire, maybe with a good book, or maybe even in the arms of the person he loves.


	3. i don't want no other

It first happens when they're working a case. Morgan and Reid—because out here, in the field, they are _professionals_—have been assigned to suss out the abduction site of a nineteen-year-old sorority girl whose body washed up on the banks of a local river, marks carved into her chest the exact same ones as were found on two previous victims. They're at a local bar, and even though it's nearing midday the patronage is by no means diminutive.

Morgan is talking to the bartender, and Reid to a waitress, when it happens. Ever since they starting seeing each other—and even earlier than that, if he's being honest with himself—Morgan keeps one eye on the witness and one eye on his boyfriend. Objectively, he knows it's a bad idea, and that he should be completely devoted to the case, but subjectively—having already seen Reid face down armed unsubs and a dosage of anthrax—he's not too keen on letting Reid get into any more danger than is necessary.

He's not too keen on him getting into any danger, period, but this job always has its risks.

Morgan finishes up with his questions and turns in Reid's direction. It's then that he sees it. The waitress Reid is interviewing creeps her hand along the tabletop and rests it gently on Reid's forearm. The man in question furrows his brow and something must show in his face, because the waitress withdraws her hand with what Morgan assumes is an apology.

So it's not that big of a deal, really. Hardly an incident worth mentioning.

Except for the fact that the moment the witness' skin made contact with Reid's, something sharp and painful and burning sprung to life in Morgan's stomach. And now, even though the waitress has turned away to get back to her job, and Reid is walking over with a small smile on his face, the feeling won't go away.

* * *

><p>It's only later, when they're curled up in their crappy hotel bed, Reid's soft snores comforting and familiar in the otherwise peaceful silence, does Morgan realise that what he was—<em>is<em>—feeling is jealousy.

* * *

><p>He tries to play it cool. He really, really does. Derek—because when they're off the clock, they can afford to be casual—knows that Spencer would never act upon any untoward advances, would remain faithful until the bitter end because that's the kind of person he is. So, really, he has nothing at all to worry about.<p>

Except.

Except that whenever they go on a date, and someone else's eyes linger upon the tender curve of Spencer's neck, the soft bow of his lips, the way his jeans fit his ass _just right_—whenever that happens, the fiery sensation in the pit of Morgan's stomach intensifies, becoming almost unbearable.

The pain only seems to cease when Spencer turns to him, brow furrowed, and drops a kiss against the corner of Derek's mouth, saying, "At least _try_ to look like you're enjoying yourself." Derek doesn't have the courage to tell him that it's not that he's not enjoying himself, but rather than he's worried about Spencer enjoying himself just a little too much.

It all comes to a head one night when the team's celebrating at a bar for closing another case. Hotch is off somewhere being Rossi's wingman; Prentiss, JJ and Garcia are trying to drink each other under the table; and Spencer is hustling Derek at pool.

When it's Spencer's turn to take a shot, he bends over the table and bites his lip in concentration, an image that goes straight to Derek's trousers. Unfortunately, it seems to go straight to someone else's trousers, too, because a guy sidles up beside Spencer just as he sinks two balls, whistling appreciatively.

"That's some nice wrist action you got going on there," the stranger drawls, giving Spencer a once-over and clearly liking what he sees. Derek is frozen in place on the other side of the pool table, powerless to stop the scene unfolding in front of him. "Are you this flexible at everything, or just pool?"

Spencer straightens up and shifts uncomfortably, and that seems to do the trick. Derek gains full movement of his limbs once again and, clutching his pool cue tightly in his hand, marches around the table.

"Well, that depends on what you define as flexible, because the word actually comes from Middle French, meaning mentally or spiritually pliant, so—"

"Pretty boy," Derek interrupts, draping a possessive arm around Spencer's waist and planting a chaste kiss on his jaw from behind. "I think the alcohol's getting to you." He looks up and meets the stranger's gaze, feeling his lips form into a forced and predatory smile. "I've got a gun strapped to my belt and a badge in my jacket pocket, so unless you want to spend the night in an FBI holding cell, I'd suggest you move along. He's taken." Derek tightens his grip around Spencer's waist, watching the man visibly swallow before backing away slowly, hands upraised.

When he's gone, Spencer twists in Derek's grip and meets his gaze. Their faces are so close together their noses are almost touching. "FBI holding cell?" he asks, clearly trying to hide a smile. "Derek, were you _jealous_?"

The fire in Derek's stomach roars to life, but this time it's a good kind of heat, warming him up from the inside out. "So what if I was?" he says, mock-grumpily, planting another kiss on Spencer's jaw. "I'm not allowed to protect my boyfriend's honour?"

"I'm not a damsel in distress, Morgan," Spencer says, pulling away from the embrace. Derek notes the renewed use of his last name, as well as the annoyed furrows in Spencer's brow. "I was handling it."

"I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable, I just didn't like the way that guy was looking at you."

"You've got to be kidding me." Spencer's voice is flat and cold. Derek flinches almost involuntarily. "You know how many times you've been hit on in front of me? Girls—and guys—look at you like you're a piece of meat. They don't even see me standing next to you! So I'm sorry if the one time it happens to me you can't handle the idea that I might _actually_ be desirable to someone else—"

"But it wasn't just one time!" At Derek's outburst, Spencer stills. The creases in his forehead soften a little, and look alarmingly like pity, so Derek ploughs on ahead. "People look at you too, Spence, God, you have no idea how gorgeous you are. And I was handling it, I was fine, but it just got too much and then this _guy_ was all over you and I just—"

"Hey, hey," Spencer interrupts, and this time it's him reaching out, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck. The noise of the bar fades into the background, until it is just the two of them, breathing the same air, hearts beating in sync. "I get it now, okay? I get it. Sometimes you just have to use your words, Derek." He leans in and places a feather-light kiss on Derek's lips. "Besides," he says, pulling away by a hair's breadth, so close Derek could swallow the words from his mouth, "You getting all flustered like that? Kinda hot."

Spencer pulls away with a breathy laugh before Derek can reel him in for a proper kiss. He saunters through the crowd of patrons towards the exit, and turns to face Derek when he reaches the doorway. "Coming?"

Derek doesn't need to be told twice.


	4. let me come and hold you

"Derek? Derek. Wake up. _Derek_. It's Christmas."

A hand shakes his shoulder in time with the words, and Derek reluctantly lets his eyes flutter open. Spencer is leaning over him, the soft morning light framing his pale face and casting his delicate features in a stunningly soft glow. Derek can't tear his gaze away from the sight: Spencer's eyes, big and round and brown; his lips, small pink cupid bows; his hair, a cascade of tawny curls still damp from the rain last night. If he could freeze this moment, capture it and keep it forever, Derek would.

He would in a heartbeat.

Of course, the image is ruined when Spencer's eyebrows come together in a frown, and he pouts. "If you're not up in thirty seconds, I'll take all your presents for myself," he threatens, and Derek groans.

"All right, all right, I'm up. I'm up." He eases himself up into a sitting position and stretches, feeling his bones crack satisfyingly. Spencer's frown eases off into a smile, and Derek leans forward to capture those perfect lips in a kiss. "Merry Christmas, pretty boy," he breathes against Spencer's mouth, giving his boyfriend another quick peck before rolling out of bed and tugging on his favourite pair of ratty sweatpants. Spencer looks delighted, taking Derek's hand and tugging him from the bedroom to where their Christmas tree resides. Derek rolls his eyes, but follows all the same.

They get to the living room and settle down on the carpet in front of the tree. Derek's never been big on the holiday season; after his dad died, his family never really celebrated anything. But Spencer at Christmas time is a sight to behold: he just looks so innocent, so carefree, as if all his years in the Bureau and all the things he's seen and felt have been sponged away, leaving a blank and naive slate in their place. Derek wasn't surprised in the least when Spencer had insisted they celebrate their first Christmas together as a couple; that's just the kind of guy his boyfriend is.

"Here," Spencer says, thrusting a parcel into Morgan's lap and breaking him out of his reverie. "That one's from your mom, and these are from your sisters." Derek opens all three presents, laughing quietly as the wrapping paper is torn away to reveal merchandise from the Chicago Cubs. He jams the baseball cap on his head and makes a face at Spencer, who's looking at him strangely.

"Lemme guess; your mom got you some obscure Latin textbook?" Derek teases, grabbing the opened present from Spencer's hands. "_Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers_," Derek reads, wrinkling his nose. "Close enough." He laughs as Spencer smacks him on the arm.

"Just for that, you won't be getting my present for you at all."

"Then I suppose you don't want the one I got for you, either?" Derek picks up the wrapped parcel and waves it enticingly in Spencer's direction. He sees it the moment his boyfriend gives in: the slump of his shoulders, and crease of his forehead.

"_Fine_," Spencer sniffs mock-haughtily, snatching the present from Derek's grip and throwing another into his lap. "You should be grateful for me, you know."

"I am." Derek snags Spencer by the wrist, suddenly serious, and keeps holding on until he meets his eyes. "I _am_ grateful for you," he says firmly. "I'm always grateful for you."

Spencer's eyes look suddenly shiny and wet. "Me too," he whispers after a long moment's silence. "I'm grateful for you as well." He gives Derek a tremulous smile before looking away, a soft blush blooming high on his cheeks. Derek bites back a laugh and moves to open his gift.

The wrapping paper is difficult to tear off because the whole parcel's been absolutely _swathed_ in sticky tape, but he gets there in the end. When the paper does finally come off, and the present inside is revealed, Derek's breath is taken away from his lungs.

"Spence…" he says, unable to find the words to describe how he's feeling. In his hands he holds the title deed to the little fixer-upper he's been eyeing for a while; the little fixer-upper that isn't actually so little, and which turned out to be way above Derek's price range. He swallows heavily and looks up to meet Spencer's gaze. "How did you…"

Spencer gives a small, deprecating shrug. "I've been saving up," he says simply, tucking his hair behind his ears. "Merry Christmas, Derek."

"Merry Christmas," Derek echoes, still struck to the core by Spencer's present. He clears his throat. "Your turn now."

Spencer's long, pianist's fingers peel away the sticky tape and wrapping paper with a deftness Derek could never dream of possessing. "Oh my God," he says with a choked-off laugh when the gift is finally revealed. The photo album Derek's given him, documenting their years together in the BAU as well as their months together as a couple, seems small fry compared to what Spencer gave him, but Derek's terrible at buying things, and he thinks he actually did an okay job this year.

Spencer glances up from where he's been flipping through the album and grins, his smile 100-watts bright and lighting Derek up from the inside out. "It's perfect," he says, leaning forward until they are nose-to-nose. "You're perfect."

And before Derek has time to negate that statement, because it is so outrageously false it isn't funny, Spencer's lips have found his in a warm, comforting and wholesome kiss. They pull apart after a moment, breathing slightly heavier than normal, and Derek can't stop smiling.

"I love you," Spencer murmurs against his lips, and Derek feels it all over.


	5. sun won't shine if you're not looking

**Warnings for ****references to rape/non-con (Carl Buford) and the explicit description of a panic attack.**

* * *

><p>Derek can feel his stitches beginning to tear.<p>

He thought that, after Buford died, he'd be okay. That maybe his open wounds which still feel like fresh tattoos would finally heal. That maybe the thread he used to sew his bleeding heart up would tighten, and stiffen, and never come close to breaking again.

Except now, one week and six days after Buford's death, as Derek lies alone in his too big, too empty Queen bed; now everything seems to catch up with him, hits him like a tsunami wave, and suddenly it's hard to breathe.

He's falling, falling, drowning, suffocating in the grip of his linen sheets, fingers clutching at his eyes and wanting to tear them out because oh, oh God, he remembers being told to _look up at the sky_ and now he never wants to look anywhere again.

Somehow, through the haze of pain and fear and the overwhelming desire to empty out the contents of his stomach, Derek's hand finds his phone, fingers dialing a number he knows by heart. The ringing that follows is soon cut short when someone picks up on the other end, and Spencer's voice is the best thing Derek has heard in what feels like a millennium.

"Derek?" he asks, voice dripping with exhaustion but also alight with kindness. Derek doesn't deserve him. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Derek wants to answer, he really, really does, but calling Spencer has taken what little strength he had to begin with, and now all he can do is breathe harshly into the receiver; small, shallow breaths that do nothing to ease the tightness in his chest, in his head, in his heart with its clumsy stitches that are threatening to break.

"Derek? Derek, listen to me, just try to breathe with me, okay? In, out, in, out, that's it, just listen to my voice." Derek can hear the jangle of keys on the other end of the phone; Spencer must be getting into his car. "I'm going to put you on speaker, okay? Because I'm driving there right now, Derek, just listen to my voice and I'll be there before you know it."

Derek nods, his chin jolting down against his chest. Spencer keeps talking to him, telling him to just breathe, in and out, and Derek tries, he really does, except Buford is a spectre in the back of his mind, hovering, looming, telling him to _look up at the sky_, and Derek can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can taste blood in his mouth from where he's bitten the inside of his cheek but that doesn't matter because _he can't breathe_, he can't, he can't, can't can't can't—

"Derek, Derek, it's me." Warm hands come up to caress his cheeks, framing his head, and a familiar face comes into view. Spencer looks tired, still dressed in his pyjamas, his eyes small and sleep-ridden, but there's a reassuring smile on his lips, and he looks so _beautiful_ Derek just wants to cry. "Hey, hey, don't cry, it's okay, you're okay, Derek." Spencer brushes away the wetness from Derek's cheeks. "He's gone, okay, he's gone, he can never hurt you again. I'm here, I'm here now, I won't let anything like that happen to you again."

At those words, Spencer leans forward and presses his lips against Derek's in an approximation of a kiss; it's dry and chaste but firm, as if Spencer is trying to slip a little piece of himself beneath Derek's skin. Derek presses back into the kiss just as desperately, clutching at Spencer's curls, anchoring himself.

They pull apart after an infinity of infinities, a delirium of seconds and minutes and hours. Derek takes a deep, shuddering breath, and this time the air reaches his lungs just like it's meant to. He lets out a relieved laugh that turns into a choked sob. "I love you," he says, unable to meet Spencer's eyes but meaning the words all the same. "I love you, I love you, I love you so much."

Spencer eases himself down to sit beside Derek and curls into his chest, a warm and comforting weight against his heart. "I love you too," he says with a yawn, fingers finding Derek's and lacing them together. "Don't scare me like that again, you hear?"

And Derek, who never makes promises he can't keep, doesn't say anything, but somehow that's okay, because the stitches around his heart are more flexible than he gave them credit for and haven't torn yet.

(Besides, if they did, Spencer would be there with a needle and thread to sew Derek whole again.)


	6. love is all that you need

There are books _everywhere_. Derek shuts the door behind him when he gets home, easing it slowly closed so it doesn't squeak on its hinges, and sighs. The living room floor is a freaking minefield of Russian literature and physics textbooks, and his boyfriend—his ridiculous, stupid boyfriend—is lying in the middle of it all, curled up wearing his pyjamas and a Christmas sweater. Derek hides a smile as he sidesteps around Spencer to get to the kitchen, carefully setting down the groceries on the bench top and trying not to make a sound.

Of course, Spencer always was a light sleeper.

"D'rek?" comes a groggy voice from the next room as Derek is putting the eggs and milk away in the fridge. Spencer shuffles into the kitchen a moment later, yawning, his hair sticking up on one side and his eyes only half-open. "You're home early. And—you went shopping." He frowns, and Derek knows the expression on his face very well: it's the patented _this-isn't-right_ look, coupled with the confused eyebrows of doom. "It was my turn this week, Der. You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." Derek shuts the fridge door and turns to smile at his boyfriend. _Boyfriend_. He savours that word in his head. They've been official for almost a year, and have been living together for a couple of months now, but still the term makes his heart skip a beat. He never thought he'd be this lucky—after Buford, he never thought he'd be anything, period. But somehow Spencer broke through his armour, that tough-as-nails outer shell, and what's even more surprising is that Derek had let him.

He doesn't regret doing so in the least.

"Der?" Spencer's voice jolts him out of his thoughts, and Derek smiles.

"Sarah was jet-lagged, so she went back to her hotel early. I thought I'd just get the groceries out of the way." He leans forward to tug on the hem of Spencer's sweater, drawing his boyfriend into his arms. "I wanted to," he repeats softly into Spencer's hair, kissing the side of his neck. "I love you."

Spencer pulls back from the embrace, and this time his expression is serene, the kind of look he has in the mornings when he's just waking up and sees Derek lying beside him. "I love you too," he says softly, brushing their lips together, and smiles into the kiss. "Does this mean I have to cook tonight?"

Derek tilts his head as if considering, but then laughs quietly. "How about we order in, pretty boy?" he asks, taking in Spencer's tired eyes and not wishing to subject his boyfriend to anything else today. Sometimes Derek gets like this—over-protective and caring—but he just can't help himself when Spencer is looking at him like he's hung the moon. "Some Chinese, some _Storage Wars_, and you can read your thesis to me. How's that sound?"

Spencer kisses Derek again and then pulls away, rubbing at his eyes. "_Star Trek_," he says, raising his voice over Derek's fake groan, "And maybe then we'll talk."

"Oh, we will, will we?" Something must show on Derek's face, because Spencer gives a small shriek and runs, laughing, from the kitchen. Derek shoves the ice-cream into the freezer and then gives chase, dodging the books strewn like landmines across their living room floor. He catches up to Spencer, wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him in for a kiss. The both of them are still laughing.

"Deal," Derek breathes against Spencer's lips, and his boyfriend's smile just widens. _I love you_, pounds the rhythm of Derek's heart, but the words don't need to be said aloud because Spencer knows them already.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>All of these were originally written for Moreid Week over on tumblr. I shuffled the drabbles around so they could form a coherent story. If you're after a pretty darn cool Moreid AU, go check out _if the heavens ever did speak _on my profile. Otherwise, come chat with me over on my tumblr enjolrave.

Titles in this story are from Kimbra's _Cameo Lover._


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